


Out of Your Depth

by camerasparring



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bill writes a dirty letter and Mike finds it, Continuing my trend of stealing plot points from films, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, I watched Atonement and this happened, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Smut, Very very minor but I can't help myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: Bill turns his chair back to the desk.I want your hands on me,he types. He shoves his hands under his armpits, staving them away.No. Yes.I want them everywhere, all the time. Wetting on my lips, against my tongue. Pressing and spreading and holding at my thighs. Wrapped around me. God, I want your hands.-Or: Bill writes two letters for Mike: one a touch more, uh, explicit. Too bad he gives him the wrong one. Yes, exactly like Atonement.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 39
Kudos: 266





	Out of Your Depth

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhh well. I watched Atonement again after ten-ish years (can we talk about how TINY James McAvoy is, holy crap) and I am now completely incapable of seeing any sort of romantic relationship without applying it to this clown movie, and I am also incapable of stopping myself from writing a fic where Bill is a dumbass that wants to bone Mike so he gets drunk and writes a letter about it. HA. 
> 
> This is smut with feelings, the title is from Atonement, as is the premise, whoops. Here's to more Hanbrough! Shout-out to QueerOnTilMorning for egging me on! ;)

Bill’s made a lot of mistakes in his life. 

No one needs to re-hash the big ones, least of all his therapy-obsessed ass, but there are a few things that still make him wince to recall, even decades later. 

Cheating on his girlfriend in college, even though they both knew they were on their way to fading out.

Getting defensive and argumentative in his first creative writing class and questioning why this new concept called “representation” was so important. It was _just writing_. 

Buying a second home and immediately discovering it was infested with mold. Luckily, it was soon before Derry, and in the divorce, they were able to sell it at a loss and Bill sort of pretended it hadn’t happened. 

Allowing Richie Tozier to roast him in public, in the name of “honoring him” for a sizable donation to the Derry Public Library. 

He’d relive them all again, soak in his humiliation, never speak word of another sensible thing he did in his life if he could take this one back. 

This one surpasses them all by a mile. 

Bill’s eyes flip madly between a hand-written letter and his phone. 

_No. No no no._

His desk is empty. His stupid type-writer is empty.

 _Oh god, please. No_. 

*

It all started with a call, as per usual. Bill would see the poetry in it if he weren’t wrapped up in the uncomfortable coil unfurling in his belly at the sight of Mike’s name. 

“Hey, man,” Mike says when he picks up, and Bill takes a deep breath before answering. 

“Hi Mikey.” 

“How’s today for you?” Mike asks, and Bill finds himself smiling. 

They’ve been talking daily, like this, for almost a year. The gap between Derry and today grows bigger and bigger, breaking apart some of the sadness and replacing itself seamlessly with a fondness for this version of each other. It flows over them easily, and Bill finds himself wondering if Mike really is his first true _friend_ since he’s reached adulthood. 

“Oh, it’s a day,” he answers.

Of course he sees the others, he talks to them. They get together on the regular, at least when they can all manage it. But what’s developed with Mike has been… different. 

Mike hums on the other end of the line. “Sounds like a story under there.”

Bill scoffs. 

At first, he convinced himself it was simple friendship. Vulnerability that’s spun between them and connected them in ways few others could understand. 

Then he told himself it was going through a divorce. Being lonely. Missing companionship. Missing intimacy. Missing _the touch_ ofsomeone else.

“Ugh, not really. Not anything worth talking about.” 

“C’mon, man,” Mike says, prodding, “you know I wanna hear it.” 

Bill goes a little warm, prickling all over.

It dawned on him after a late night of talking, their voices rough with fatigue, when Mike had rumbled his usual _and I love you_ at the end of their conversation and Bill was suddenly most of the way to tenting his sweatpants. It was surprising. And uncomfortable. And. It was intriguing. It was _something_. So yeah, he had to admit that Mike was, like, _unfairly_ attractive. 

And all of that was fine, really, Bill could deal with it. 

“Anyway,” Bill sighs, after dissecting every single detail of his new book to Mike, who laughed and understood and _helped_ in a way Bill figured he would, but hated to burden him with at the same time. “I’ll try to do some writing tonight.” 

“I’m set to come in tomorrow,” Mike reminds him, and Bill bites hard at his lip. “You ready for me?” 

Bill coughs out something like a laugh, but it sounds far too desperate to be anything but pathetic. 

The final straw was seeing Mike in person two months ago. It had been something like ten months since they had seen each other, and it paled in comparison to the time they spent apart for most of their lives, but when Bill opened the door to a grinning Mike, bag slung over his shoulder like a worn traveler, crowding in for a hug before Bill could even comprehend the breadth of his chest and arms and his _hands_ spreading out over his back, it felt like they had been apart another fucking lifetime. 

He had squeezed Mike back just as tightly this time, and with startling clarity, thought, _Oh. I love him. That’s what this is._

Then Mike drew a gentle hand up the points of his spine, cupping around the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together, and Bill felt the tips of his fingers go numb.

 _And god, I want him_.

“Yeah, uh.” Bill’s stutter has cleared up since Derry, but sometimes Mike tempts his mouth to remember. “I am ready for you, man. Let’s do this.” 

Bill stares at the empty wall of his new place, waiting patiently to be decorated, or painted, or maybe just _considered_ at all as something other than a white canvas for his anxious glaring, and prays to whatever deity can help him to survive this weekend. 

*

Bill is swept up in a lot of feelings as night falls, so he jaunts down to the corner store to buy a pack of cigarettes that he knows he won’t touch and a bottle of whiskey that he’s already broken into by the time he gets home. 

The slop of evaporating alcohol still stings at his lips as he rummages through the boxes in his useless dining room until he finally finds the type-writer Audra gave him before they were married, as a gag gift. Large, heavy as fuck, and totally outdated. He’s not even sure it works anymore. Thankfully he has the arm strength to hoist it upstairs and onto his writing desk. 

He slams the bottle of whiskey next to it and shoves himself into a chair.

The first thing he types is _What’s up, Mikey?_ before he realizes this is going to take a while. 

He rips off about fifteen sheets of paper before he starts to re-evaluate. The fuzzy drunk is radiating through him now, fist clenched around his last effort, and his longest, only one paragraph full of stuffy language. 

He’s starting to feel a little feral. Sometimes the words flow so easily, he could zone out on writing for hours. And sometimes he just stares, not sure how he’s ever written a fucking word in his life. But this is different. It’s not writer’s block. It’s his heart. 

And that’s a fucking riot. He’s spent a whole year being in some sort of denial about his feelings and now that they’re overflowing in him, burying him up to his neck in awareness and arousal, he can’t put words to the paper. Email exists. He doesn’t have to do it like this, like he’s writing an address from the fucking King. Is that how they did it? _God_ , he’s drunk. 

He takes another swig from the bottle and spins in his chair. 

He starts up some music and dangles his fingers over the keys, circling the rough edges of the letters. 

He thinks about Mike. 

Mike’s smile, his lips stretching over white teeth. 

Mike’s eyes, dark brown and strong, always holding him so tightly, letting him know he’s listening. 

Mike’s hands, how they grip over his shoulder, around his arm, against his neck. How completely they cover him. Long fingers and pale palms, soft skin rubbing smooth over Bill’s jaw, his cheeks. Maybe a thumb over his bottom lip. _Fuck_. 

He turns his chair back to the desk. 

_I want your hands on me_ , he types. He shoves his hands under his armpits, staving them away. 

No. 

Yes.

_I want them everywhere, all the time. Wetting on my lips, against my tongue. Pressing and spreading and holding at my thighs. Wrapped around me. God, I want your hands._

Fuck. The typing is starting to come easy. He knows this feeling, knows the buzz. Not just from the whiskey, but from the clack of the keys, too. It’s just a release, he tells himself. It’s just getting it out on paper. No one needs to see it. 

No one can ever see this.

_Want your hands holding me down, keeping me where you want me. Want your hands around the bones of my hips, the expanse of my back, all that skin, all for you. I want your hands everywhere. All over me._

His fingers are flying. He could write this all night. His chest heaves with ecstatic breaths. He’s spent weeks with this building, maybe almost a whole year. Maybe even _longer_ , but he refuses to think too deeply about that. Now. They have now. 

If only Mike could want him back. 

_Fuck, Mike, will you touch me with your hands? Would they know? Could you feel me against your palms, under your fingers, feel my heart? How much it wants you? How much it longs for you to touch me, to calm it, to give it what it wants? What I want?_

It’s spilling out of him without control. A simmering, dark heat spreads through him, hardening between his thighs. Tears burn his eyes but he keeps going. A release, he repeats. 

_I want to touch you, too, I swear, and I will, if you let me. If you would ever let me, I would touch you, Mike. God, would I touch you._

Bill huffs out a breath.

_Would you let me touch you?_

He tears the paper off the register and stares at it for a beat. 

He laughs, hysterical and starved. He slams the paper on the table and folds it in half, just so he doesn’t have to see the words.

He turns the chair back around and shoves a hand down his pants to palm at his erection. Fuck, he’s so hard. 

A release. Just a fucking release. 

*

The type-writer is sitting dormant by the time Mike gets in the next day. 

Bill had forgone it anyway, after he had come from the sense-memory of Mike’s hand splayed out across his back and leading him through a doorway. It was pathetic and felt so _good_ that he smacked himself across the face a few times and laid out a blank sheet of paper on his desk as soon as he cleaned up. 

Pen and paper was much more traditional. And it came easily that way, too. How much Mike means to him as a person, how much he’s appreciated their time getting closer over the past year, how much he trusts and respects and _loves_ him. And that’s it, at the end of the day. He loves Mike. And he tells him that. The sheer, burning, life-consuming lust he _also_ feels is just a by-product. 

They’ll get to that, eventually, if Mike is interested. But Mike holding him, knowing him, being _with_ him, that’s what he longs for the most. Even if Mike isn’t interested, he has so much of it now. He knows he won’t lose it. 

He wrote for almost an hour before signing his name. It reminded him of an autograph at first, which nauseated him, but he figured that also could have been the whiskey. 

The hangover he feels the next day proves it. 

They spend the day together, sight-seeing and eating, sitting around and catching up, as if they don’t talk every day. 

Bill’s just digging into his dinner, warm and pleased under Mike’s gaze, foot held carefully between Mike’s under the table, when he remembers.

“So did you write at all last night?” Mike asks, and Bill almost chokes on his steak. 

Mike’s out of his seat immediately, crouched down next to Bill’s chair, and Bill feels a hand gently press to the back of his neck. 

Bill flies out of his chair, arms helicoptering as Mike stares, wide and frightened below him. 

“I didn’t,” Bill starts, swallowing hard around the food in his mouth, willing it down with the final dregs of his own saliva. “I’m sorry, _shit_ ,” he says when it’s finally cleared his throat. 

“It’s okay, Bill, you alright?” Mike says, still crouching. Bill forces out a laugh, hovering over their table, bird’s eye view of their newly-served meal. He looks down to see Mike watching him, concerned pinch in his forehead, soft eyes. The longing hits him like a brick. 

Then Mike lifts a hand to rest on Bill’s hip, pulling himself up and craning his neck down so they’re face to face. 

“I, uh.” Bill says, and they’re so close, he could press up and kiss him, he could just tell him right now, letter be damned, fuck his cutesy plan, maybe it’s right _now_. 

“You?” Mike asks with a hesitant smile. Bill takes a deep breath. 

He can’t do it. 

“I’m fine, Jesus, sorry, steak went down the wrong way,” he babbles, shifting to slide back into his chair. Mike stares down at him for a second, popping his mouth open before returning to his seat as well. 

“So book talk is off-limits,” Mike says with a laugh.

Bill chews his steak very slowly the rest of the meal. 

*

“Don’t get me wrong, Derry had some good spots, I guess, but _god_ ,” Mike’s saying, legs pulled up onto the couch, stretched dangerously close to Bill’s own. Bill shivers as Mike’s eyes practically roll back in his head. “Having good food in all these new cities is a revelation. It’s like my taste buds returned with all my memories.” 

Bill bellows at that. He loves the ease with which Mike talks about Derry. It’s always with care and concern, but he’s not afraid to joke. Not afraid to acknowledge their hurt and their joy all tangled up in one ball of twisted tendrils they’re all unable to completely unravel. Bill feels calmed by it. He feels calmer with Mike here. 

“Well I’m excited to show you some good spots,” Bill says as another episode of Cheers comes to a close on the television. The volume is low, but it feels like a good closing point, since he’s got to be up for the _one_ meeting he wasn’t able to reschedule for Mike’s visit. But he’ll be back in time to make good on his promise of breakfast. 

Watching something old and familiar meant they talked most of the night, _again_ , and Bill has been soaking in the domesticity of spreading out under a blanket with Mike, laughing together. Mike’s arm is holding at the back of the couch, and when he dips forward to get a drink of water or point at the television or re-situate under the blanket it slips to the back of Bill’s neck, what seems to be Mike’s favorite spot. Best uses: balance, getting Bill’s attention, greetings and goodbyes, unintentionally ( _right?!)_ giving Bill an erection. 

Thank god for the blanket. And loose fitting house pants. 

Mike sighs over at him as the credits roll. “Guess I should probably turn in,” he says, then his hand lands hard and pressing to Bill’s knee under the blanket. 

“Oh,” Bill says, even though he was about to say the same thing, but now Mike is watching him and holding his leg and the pressure is just enough to make Bill want to crawl out of his skin or maybe fling himself forward and lick into Mike’s mouth. 

Then Mike gives his hand one squeeze and leaves. Bill breathes heavy, sunken into the cushions, and calls out a shaky, “Night!”

A few minutes pass before he follows down the hall, and into bed. He vows not to jerk off with Mike in the next room. It’s only two nights. He can pull himself together. 

Except that he really _can’t_ , not with the thought of Mike so close.

He works up to riding two of his fingers, twisted up around himself on the bed. He’s pressing in harder than Mike would, because Mike would probably be gentle and _careful_ , and blow Bill’s fucking mind, but Bill feels dirty and shameful, so he goes hard, gritting his teeth around the sting of the angle on his wrist and the frantic jerk of his hand over his cock to get there fast. 

It’s a close thing, stopping the groan stuck in his throat when he comes, so he shoves his face into his pillow and feels the veins in his neck stretch tight with the effort of keeping quiet. 

*

Bill sneaks out of the house the next morning before Mike is awake. He definitely didn’t plan it that way, he just happened to sleep shittily, drowning in self-loathing from jerking off like a monster as soon as he and Mike parted ways for the night.

It’s like he’s fucking fifteen, and all for his _best friend_.

It’s around quarter to seven, his car out front, the folded letter in an envelope, clutched tight in his hand. He’s right outside of Mike’s door, paying far too close attention to how the air is flowing crookedly through his lungs. Is breathing always this hard? Does he always think about it this much while it’s happening? Of course _now_ that he’s thinking about it it’s going to seem weird- Fuck. Okay. Mike is going to wake up and open the door on him if he doesn’t get his shit together and do this now. 

And he’s not sure how in the hell he would explain standing outside his door with a love letter right about now, other than maybe chucking it at Mike and running away. This is a more gradual version of that, he supposes. 

Bill leans down to press one knee to the ground and slides the envelope under the guest room door. 

Okay. Done. 

He spends the rest of the morning panic-sweating and checking his phone. His agent definitely notices, gesturing a few times at his armpits, but Bill holds them tight at his sides afterward and that seems to appease her. 

But then it’s almost nine and he still hasn’t heard from Mike. They were supposed to meet back at his house around ten, then go together to the restaurant, and Mike is a master of pre-event confirmation texts. When nine thirty rolls around, Bill starts to have chest pains.

He texts Mike with shaky fingers.

_You sleeping in?_

It’s casual enough that maybe it’ll pass as normal. 

As the car approaches home, there’s still no answer. 

When he walks in the door, his phone pings with a text. Relief washes over him until he sees Richie’s name. 

_You saucy dog_ , it says. Bill wipes at the screen, like it’ll make more appear. Or erase everything altogether.

 _What?_ He types back, but Richie is already adding more.

 _I wouldn’t have pegged you for a romance writer, but you could definitely switch genres._

What the- 

_What are you talking about_? Bill says back as he’s hurtling up the stairs. It can’t be, right? There’s no possible way. He wrote a letter by hand, he put it on the bookshelf while he found an envelope, and then he went- wait. 

His office is bright with morning light, which is most of the reason why he chose this place, despite it being way too big for just him, but Bill’s focused on the folded piece of paper still sitting on the bookshelf. He picks it up and sees his own scratchy scrawl, confessing his love for Mike. 

The desk is empty. The typed letter is gone. The letter where he-

His phone lights up. 

_The dirty letter, man._

*

“I don’t _know,_ I’m sorry, Eddie is gong to fucking kill me, dude,” Richie’s saying into his ear, but Bill feels like he’s in another world, somewhere between utter panic and blacking out, with a healthy smidge of humiliation all tied up in there. 

“Why did Eddie even _see_ it?” Bill screams into his phone. 

“He and Mike were gonna get coffee and I guess he happened to see it,” Richie tells him, then, “And screen-shotted it.” 

Bill’s whole body burns with anger. 

“And he sent it to me.” 

“Okay, I fucking get it, Rich, listen,” Bill says, crushing the hand-written letter between his fingers. It’s not like he’s going to need it now. He’s ruined this. “Do you know where Mike is now?” 

“He told Eddie he needed some time alone,” Richie answers, and Bill’s stomach drops out. “I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s ready to talk, man.” 

“Sure,” Bill spits, “it’s not like he just found out the friend who’s putting him up is a fucking pervert.” 

Richie scoffs. “That letter was _classy_ , alright, dude? Some truly poetic porn, I might have to take a few pointers, ya know, not that Eds and I need spicing up but-”

Bill hangs up. 

His whole body is a livewire of anxiety and terror. The alcohol and adrenaline blurred his memory enough that he doesn’t remember exactly everything he wrote in that letter, but he knows this is _not_ good. Just as he’s considering screaming, alone, in his empty house, he hears the front door open downstairs. 

His place is new. The only other person who has a key is Mike. 

For a moment he considers jumping from the second story window onto the roof, then shimmying down the gutter and running into the woods. But he hears Mike scaling the stairs, slowly, and knows he’s already missed his chance. Plus, he should probably deal with this. 

He still eyes the window. 

“Oh, hey,” Mike says as he comes into view, feet halting in the doorway. He’s tall and shining in jeans and a green button-up, still holding a fucking _letter_ in his hands. Bill irrationally wants to swipe it to the ground and fall to his knees in apology. 

“Hi, Mikey,” he says instead. 

He’s a coward, so he stares at the ground. He can’t look into Mike’s eyes. He’s so fucking scared he could throw up, bile coating his throat, stomach flipping unhappily. Then he hears the wood floor creak, and he forces himself. 

Mike’s walking toward him, eyes dark. Bill’s throat almost closes up. 

“I got your letter,” Mike says, voice rough, closer with every second. Bill considers backing up, it feels like the natural thing to do, but the way Mike is _looking_ at him pins him in place. 

“Yeah, I’m- I’m really sorry-”

“It was for me, right?” Mike says, a brief and hesitant hitch in his step. 

Bill pops his mouth open. He feels like he could laugh. Or cry. Or both simultaneously.

“Of course it- of course it was.” 

Mike’s shoulders relax. He takes another step forward. Bill can feel the heat of him, the silhouette of his body leaning toward him, inches apart. 

“It was rather unexpected,” Mike says. This time, Bill does laugh. 

“Yeah, it was the wrong, um.” Mike reaches forward to take Bill’s hand. “Version.” 

“Right,” Mike says, and there’s possibly more, but he brings Bill’s fingers up to his mouth, pressing one to the pad of his lips, whispering, “What was in the right version?” 

There’s absolutely no reality in which Bill would have predicted this reaction. Two minutes ago he was willing to jump through an open window, and now his _fingers_ are in Mike’s mouth, Mike’s _tongue_ is sliding over his skin like he wants to taste him. And god, Bill wants to taste him back. 

His eyes rake up and down Mike’s whole body. 

“Uh,” he answers. It sums up his thoughts pretty well. “It was more, um. Well- less. _Less_.”

Mike crooks a smile and dips Bill’s ring finger deeper into his mouth. Bill feels the curve of his tongue, lapping around him, and he also feels like he might pass out. But he can’t fucking miss this. This is all he’s wanted for _months_. 

His fingers pop free with a dirty slurp. Bill wants to fall to his knees again, but for a very different reason. Mike moves in closer, a familiar hand curving around the back of his neck. _God, I’m in love_ , Bill thinks.

“Less…” Mike leads. Bill has already forgotten they were talking.

He gulps. “Horny?” 

This time Mike laughs, low, hanging his head. Bill thinks he sees nerves there, suddenly, and moves in closer. This is happening. And he needs Mike to know it’s _good._ It’s going to be so fucking _good_. 

“I may have had a few, uh. Drinks,” Bill says, locking his fingers with Mike’s between them. Mike tightens his hold when their eyes meet. “And it kind of… spilled out.”

He rakes his free hand up over the swell of Mike’s pec, gripping up over his shoulder in earnest, just to match Mike’s hold on his neck. Mike takes a shaky breath and it makes Bill go weak in the knees. 

“I didn’t know, I mean. I didn’t think-”

Bill pulls back, just as their lips brush. “You- I’m assuming this means you feel the same way.” 

Mike blows a hard breath against Bill’s mouth, and it’s damp with joy, his fingers burying deep in the small gathering of hair at the back of Bill’s head. It tingles at Bill’s scalp - he wants to moan with it, and then he realizes he _could_. It wouldn’t scare Mike. 

Mike’s watching him closely, faces so near he’s basically cross-eyed, but Bill is overwhelmed at the attention. Obviously he knew Mike was tall, and _obviously_ that was a turn-on, but with Mike’s arms coming to encircle him, pulling them against each other, Bill is all wrapped up and a bit stuck, and it feels safe. 

Mike always makes him feel so safe. He should have known this would be the same. 

Drying fingers brush a line across Bill’s lips again, gentler, curious, until Mike’s mouth follows. It’s open and wet, Mike groans almost right away, and Bill loses his grip on reality. 

“Fuck, Mikey,” he shudders, stepping back, leaning hard against the inner shell of Mike’s arms around him, “this is not- _god_ , this is not what I thought would happen when I-”

“Tell me you’re not having second thoughts,” Mike says, his face falling, and Bill can’t shake his head fast enough, “I mean, I read that letter, and I led pretty strongly by practically blowing your f-”

Bill slaps a hand over Mike’s mouth. His skin is so soft. Fuck, why aren’t they kissing? 

“No second thoughts,” he says, quick, and Mike relaxes against him, “not a whole lot of thoughts, right now, honestly, other than, uh- bedroom?” 

Mike laughs again, and they’re chest to chest so it’s a shared vibration, and Bill realizes with a start that he’s most of the way to getting hard. Then Mike’s face is back to looking serious. 

“I’m good with that, as long as this isn’t just a- I mean, Bill, I couldn’t handle if this wasn’t-”

“It is.” One day he’s going to let Mike finish a sentence. 

Maybe showing him the crumpled remains of his love letter would be easier, and maybe it would at least slightly fulfill his romantic intentions from earlier, but all he wants to do is kiss Mike again, whether or not it leads anywhere, so he gathers all the courage left in his body and clears his throat. 

“This isn’t some lark for me, I-” god, it’s fucking hard to say out loud, even though he feels it so deeply he could swim miles in the sensation lapping between them right now, “I love you, Mike. I’m _in_ love with you.” 

Mike takes a step back, and for a second, Bill’s worried he’s gone too far. Leaving the dirty letter may have been a simpler solution after all. 

But then Mike’s rushing into him, kissing hard at his mouth, holding big and tight over his hips, and it’s wet again, just like earlier, but Bill still wants _more_ , so opens his lips and lets Mike lick inside, and then they’re both surging into each other. 

Mike whimpers when their tongues meet. Bill throws his arms up like a Southern Belle, wraps them tight around Mike’s neck to pull him down, down, deeper into his mouth, closer and _hotter_ , above him and against him and absolutely nothing _but_ him. He’s walking backward, pulling Mike with him, and when his back hits the bookshelf he thanks god for a thick ledge on the built-ins and pulls away to hop up and sit on it. 

Now Mike doesn’t have to tilt down, so Bill wraps his legs around his torso to bring him closer, to keep their mouths fused. 

He’s been here many times, the _first kiss_ territory, and it’s always a revelation, if you like the person. It’s always felt like he could do it all day, spend hours making out, grinding, learning how to touch someone else, and he has. He’s done it with multiple people, with his ex-wife, and it was always _great_. His favorite, in fact.

In the hierarchy of first kisses, kissing someone he already loves is climbing its way up to the top slot.

Bill loses time with it, lost in each other, his brain full to the brim of static and floaty pink hearts because Mike’s mouth on his feels like relief at the same time it feels like a fire burning. 

He wants to do it forever, sloppy and silly, breaking apart to laugh and catch their breath, groan hard when their hips line up, roam hands over skin because they’re feeling it for the first time. But he also wants to hold Mike close. Wants to _keep_ him. Wants to talk to him about his real writing tomorrow, wants to take him out to breakfast after they’re done. He wants to see Mike smile at him over the pages of a book on a Sunday morning, wants to hold his hand while they’re on a road trip. 

A hand caresses at his jaw, and Bill blinks his eyes open to see Mike’s forehead creased. He leans forward, giving their chins and mouths and _lips_ a break, and Bill paws at his arms as they press their cheeks together. He just wants to be touching him all the time, it’s overwhelming, it’s a fucking lot. 

“ _Bill_ ,” Mike sighs. It’s slow and broken, and Bill wants to pull it out of Mike’s mouth again, wants to spend the rest of the night figuring out how. Night? Day? He’s totally lost track of what time it is. Breakfast. Right. They haven’t even had fucking _breakfast_ and his erection is leaking a spot into his jeans. And he just came last night. Jesus. 

Bill brushes hands up Mike’s arms and shivers at the hard muscle. He’s barely even _touched_ someone as ripped as Mike is, and now it’s all his to touch. And lick, and suck, and maybe just, like, rub his body all over-

“If we don’t find a bed right now I’m gonna blow you against this bookshelf,” Bill groans, the image of mouthing his way around Mike’s dick far too tempting, now that he’s said it out loud. 

Mike, for his part, looks stunned. Bill lets it roll over his mind for a beat before cutting in. 

“Do I have to remind you how this all started?” Bill asks, lifting two fingers to tease at Mike’s bottom lip again. Mike’s face heats under his touch. 

“Thought you wanted _my_ hands on you?” Mike says, his eyes going dark like a shot. Bill’s groin stirs, and then Mike’s covering his thighs with strong, intent fingers, heavy palms and sliding them up to pull at his hips again. 

“Fuck, I do,” he says, panting under Mike’s touch, now tight over his ribs, “I think about your hands so much.” 

Mike groans. His hands skate back down, thumbing hard into the dip of Bill’s pelvis and meeting his belt. Bill looks up, practically drooling. Mike watches him.

“Tell me.” 

The clink of metal against denim is dull, but it chokes a laugh out of Bill. Mike is undoing his _pants_ and he’s going to _touch his dick_ and Bill wrote him a whole fucking dirty letter and he still wants to hear more. 

Bill tries to weave back together a few brain cells. 

“I, _shit_ ,” he groans as Mike shoves down his underwear and takes him in hand. “Mike, I can’t-”

“ _Tell me,_ ” Mike says, into his mouth this time, crowding in with a big, strong hand on Bill’s cock. Bill whimpers, desperate to give Mike everything.

“Fuck, fuck, I- I thought about this, your hands, you jerking me off,” he says, because it’s happening, because Mike’s hand is dragging up in a slow, dry line, “fuck, we need some lube.”

Mike kisses him, once, hard, before whispering, “Where?” 

“The- the bedroom, it’s on my night-stand, I-” 

Bill can barely get the words out before Mike is full-on sprinting out of the room, and then he’s dissolving into a fit of giggles that hardly subside when Mike returns. He’s flushed and rumpled, shirt tugged in five directions and unbuttoned from the pull of Bill’s fingers, chin red and chapped from Bill’s shitty shave this morning, and his- well. His pants are, uh. Tight. 

As Bill’s laugh dries into trepidation, Mike walks toward him, lube in hand, stripping off his shirt with one quick pull. Bill tries to do the same but is struck dumb at Mike’s fucking _body_. 

“You good?” Mike asks, probably because Bill’s face might look slightly stroke-esque, twitching in stark interest, but he can still manage a nod when faced with something he wants this badly. 

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I, uh.” Bill looks down to his gray t-shirt and messy flannel and his dick hanging out of his jeans. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but I’m… sorry?” 

Mike’s head jerks back. He takes a step closer. Bill reaches his arms out to draw him in. 

“Why would you be sorry?” 

“Mike,” Bill hedges, trying to convey something like _you are clearly the smoke-show here_ with his eyes, but Mike’s not getting it, instead darting his tongue out to wet his lips as he takes in Bill’s hard, red cock. He’s leaking now, faced with a real-life six-pack, but he wonders if they can put the lube to better use. _Fuck_ , he should have asked Mike to get the condoms, too…

“Bill.” Mike tips a finger under his chin, pecking at his lips. Bill’s so hard between them, smearing pre-come onto Mike’s chest as he lets Bill circle him again with his legs. Mike pulls away and looks down, and for a second, Bill thinks he’s going to duck down to suck him into his mouth when he quirks an eyebrow. 

The six-pack ain’t for nothing, and the proof is in the pudding as they say, Bill can hardly remember, because Mike’s sliding him back to the wall and hitching his pants and underwear down so he can take them off. It’s a bit of an awkward tumble, but Mike is fucking _strong_ , and Bill already feels man-handled, and that’s before Mike’s hand crooks under his bare knee to lift it up.

“Can I-” he starts, pushing until Bill’s knee is bending out and in, toward his chest but still spread out, and Bill’s not quite sure how long he can keep this up but the blood is pounding against his skull and he wants Mike to finger him or fuck him or _both_ right this second. 

“Yeah, oh my god, yes,” Bill says, gripping his knee as tight as he can in his hand. 

Mike empties a pool of lube into his hand, eyes going sheepish when he realizes how much. 

“Sorry, I’m- my hands are shaking,” Mike says on a laugh, and Bill drags a hand down the center of his chest, holds him around the swell of his hip. 

“It’s okay,” Bill says, leaning up to kiss him before they get started, good _god_ this is really happening, “it’s okay, Mike, fuck, I want you so bad.” 

“Yeah?” Mike’s pupils are blown. He pushes his unbuttoned pants down with his clean hand. When his cock springs free Bill’s mouth actually _waters_. If he weren’t a forty year old man, propped up on a cabinet, spread out and waiting to be fingered and fucked, he would lick up the courage to get that thing in his mouth. 

Instead, he just moans, asshole clenching, and grits out, “ _Fuck_ yeah.” 

“Keep talking.” 

Bill’s always been prone to talking during sex, but it’s been tamped down after years of irritated partners, or embarrassment, or just practical manners. But Mike keeps asking for it, one, then two, then three fingers deep, and Bill’s already decided to give him everything, but these feels like a mutually beneficial bonus. 

“You ready?” Mike asks after what feels like an eternity of pulling Bill apart. Bill almost lets his leg fall off the ledge, but Mike is there to hold him up, uses the opportunity to press forward and steal a kiss, too. Bill sighs into it. Mike is going to fuck him.

Against a bookshelf. 

This is ridiculous.

“Yeah,” he says, before reason or comfort or his _muscles_ and bones get the better of him, “yeah, I want you, c’mon.”

But Mike freezes.

“Why don’t you get down?”

Bill stares, splayed out and naked. 

“Stand up? Turn around?” Mike elaborates, twisting a finger. The finger that was just _inside_ him.

Bill wants to protest, feels like whining with how badly he just wants to be railed into the wall, but the press of the wood is already numbing his ass and once Mike’s inside him, retaining any core strength to hold himself up is going to be a lost cause. 

“Yeah, okay, smartass.” 

Mike balks, “I’m just watching out for _your_ ass, Denbrough.” 

Bill peels himself off the shelf and pushes until his feet are on the ground. It’s then he remembers he’s been fingered gently and thoroughly for the past ten minutes, or more precisely, he remembers when his legs go to jelly and he almost pitches into the floor. Luckily, Mike is there.

“I swear to- come _up_ here,” Mike growls, buried in Bill’s neck, pulling him back to a stand. Bill clings to him like a lifeline, and he really _is_ , but he’s also ridiculous and strong and Bill wants him right now. He feels feral again. And this time he has more in front of him than a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey and his own right hand. 

“You’re the one who made me get down,” Bill says in a rush. He sucks a soft spot over the skin of Mike’s shoulder, then turns around and braces his hands on the ledge his ass recently occupied. “C’mon, Mike.” 

“Oh _god_ , alright,” Mike says, but then his hands are gone. Bill shifts to look over his shoulder to see Mike rolling a condom on. 

“Where did you-”

“It was in the drawer. I’m sorry I went through your stuff, I just thought I’d be prepared,” Mike says, eyes fluttering as he wets himself with lube. Bill moans. Mike wanted to _fuck_ him.

He turns back to face his overblown collection of books. If he reads the titles, maybe he’ll calm down. Maybe he can get his breathing back to normal, so he doesn’t tense up the moment Mike is in him. It’s been awhile since it’s been a real live _person_ on the other end of this with him, and then he remembers where Mike found the condoms. 

“Did you, uh.” Bill looks over his shoulder again, where Mike is trailing a slicked finger between his cheeks. “Did you see anything else in that… drawer?” 

Bill can’t see Mike, biting over the notches of his spine as he presses the blunt head of his thumb inside Bill’s hole, but he can sense the grin. Mike’s bashful grin, god, he would write novels about that grin. And maybe he will. Maybe Richie was right - after all, his letter worked wonders. 

“You mean my competition?” Mike says, raising his head to press his nose into Bill’s hair, and Bill _shakes_. 

“ _Fuck_ , I don’t think you have to worry about that.” 

Mike’s hands come up to his hips, and then one leaves, and Bill leans forward and shifts his feet to spread them further. 

“No?” Mike asks, as he’s _pressing his dick in_ , as Bill’s stretching to accommodate him and scrabbling against the wood under his hands. 

“Mike, fuck, more, keep going,” Bill grunts, because he’s going so slow he might die, he just _wants_ it, he’s the perfect size and he’s barely even inside. His head swims. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Mike says. His voice is so smooth and calm. Bill can’t find it in him to be embarrassed at how quickly he’s falling apart, if he sounds desperate it’s because he _is_ , and Mike has to know that about him, or he wouldn’t- wait. Does he?

“Mike,” Bill gasps, wanting to ask. Wanting to know, wanting to hear it, but he breathes a slow puff of air and relaxes, and then Mike bottoms out. Their hips are flush, and Mike’s deep, and Bill usually doesn’t like something _fully_ inside him, so far he can taste it, but he’s orbiting a different galaxy tonight where anything goes. 

And everything is good. 

Then Mike sweeps a solid hand up his chest to his chin, grabbing at his jaw to turn him, their mouths meeting in a messy, tonguing kiss, both too gobsmacked and twisted to get the angle right, and Bill doesn’t have to ask. He knows. 

“Okay,” Bill pants when they break apart, turning toward the books, “fuck me, Mike, c’mon.”

Mike laughs as he backs his hips out, just an inch, then a little further, and when he snaps forward again, Bill _keens_. It’s a gentle slide, but it feels like it’s pulling him apart. It’s Mike, so there’s no way it could be any different. He works up to a rhythm after some gradual movement, and then he’s fucking in at the perfect speed to crush Bill’s control and sanity and he drops his head to the wood shelf and digs his nails in to hold on. 

Mike’s hands are a dream, are an absolute fucking revelation, just like Bill knew they would be, just like he _told_ him. But his dick is heaven. And his voice is still soft, even while he’s grunting from the effort, even while he sets a harder pace and pounds in, just like Bill wants, like he can read his fucking mind, and Bill’s hand finds his dick in a rush. 

“You want me touch you?” Mike asks, and Bill chokes out a laugh, but he can’t talk, so he nods frantically and Mike is there. Mike is always _there_. 

His hand pumps over Bill’s dick, dripping from the good fucking and the sounds of their skin slapping together. Bill loves it. He wants more, he wants it always, and when Mike’s panting speeds up, he throws his hips into it and takes over, fucking himself back onto Mike’s cock. 

“Bill, I’m gonna come,” Mike slurs, still trying to move, still doing his best to hold it together. Bill loves him. 

“Come, _come_ ,” Bill tells him, thrusting back, trying to get him there. Mike’s hand jerks him without a steady rhythm, but both of them are focused on the slide of Mike’s dick, hitting Bill’s prostate, sending him to the moon, and Bill’s hips are snapping so hard he’s going to have bruises. He _wants_ them. 

Mike gasps, hands gripping around Bill’s sides, holding him in place while he comes. Bill whines, still wanting more, but then he turns back to see the look on Mike’s face and moans. His head is hanging back, chest heaving with his thrusts and breathing, groaning deep from his throat. He shakes and presses in and shakes some more, and Bill keeps groaning, keeps trying to fuck back against him to draw it out. 

Bill feels more than hears a deep breath behind him, hot on the sweat sheening over his back, and then Mike’s hand grips a tight fist around Bill’s waiting cock. Bill’s already close, the noises of Mike coming inside him spinning in his brain, and then Mike locks his _teeth_ around the meat of Bill’s bicep and he blows all over the fucking floor. 

“ _Shit_ , Mike, _shit, shit_ ,” he groans as it hits him hard, rocks him in waves, blurs out all his senses. He can vaguely feel Mike still inside him and he squirms back to get one last taste. Then he collapses onto the shelf in front of him. Mike falls onto him, body big enough to cover him, to wrap around him completely and hold them there, pressed together. 

“I love you,” Mike whispers against him, mouthing in messy circles over his shoulders, his neck, his back. Bill’s heart swells. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and it’s almost a laugh, because he knows. He knows. But hearing it is an onslaught of pure fucking delight. Mike nips at his back with his teeth. Bill squirms in his arms with no real intent. He wants to stay here forever. 

“Yeah,” Mike answers eventually, when they’re breaking apart, when Bill’s turning around to kiss him deep and real. “Yeah, I love you.” 

*

Bill can barely look Richie and Eddie in the eye at dinner that night.

He’s not sure why he agreed to this. 

Probably because Mike fucked him stupid, fed him french toast with strawberries in bed because they opted for delivery instead of getting dressed and wandering out into the world, lazed around with him all day, and then blew him, long and gentle, slow and teasing, practically forcing a second orgasm out of him.

And then insisted he go to dinner with their friends. Bill kinda felt like Mike was owed something for such a mind-blowing day. 

So he keeps his mouth shut while Richie stares at him like he’s grown another head. 

“So,” Eddie says first, “how was the rest of, uh. Your day?”

Mike glances to him, menu propped on the table in front of him. 

“Pretty good,” Mike says, beaming when he turns to Bill. Bill’s face immediately heats. Eddie grunts across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know that look,” Eddie says, elbowing Richie in the side.

“I told you that letter would work,” Richie says back, and Bill slams his eyes shut in humiliation. Mike just laughs at his side, setting his menu down to wrap an arm around Bill’s shoulders. 

“It really did,” Mike says, pressing the smallest of kisses to Bill’s cheek.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> quick note, the line about Bill scoffing at representation is definitely in the book and I just needed to make fun of him cause lol ok boomer
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you want a fluffier Hanbrough tale with some plot, head on over to [my Hanbrough Rom Com AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644007)!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [tinyangryeddie](https://tinyangryeddie.tumblr.com/) or Twitter, where I'm [camerasparring](https://twitter.com/camerasparring)!


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